


Camera

by newmoons



Category: overwatch
Genre: F/F, LGBT, queer, wlw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:21:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22622458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newmoons/pseuds/newmoons
Summary: After a harsh break-up that only Lena seems to be trudging through, an old camera is found.
Relationships: Tracer X Widowmaker, Widowtracer - Relationship, amelie lacroix x lena oxton, lena oxton x amelie lacroix, widowmaker x tracer
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	Camera

Stacked boxes filled the room like the small compartments I stuffed useless emotions into, placing me so far from reality that I felt sunken underwater. The window in the corner had no curtains, and instead allowed too-bright sunlight into the room to fall on freshly washed floorboards the color of the cream I used to put in my coffee as you drank your tea, long legs outstretched across my knees-- do you remember the taste of my lips after I'd taken a sip? Does it haunt you the way every corner of this house haunts me? I can see where everything was, the ghost of furniture we lounged across, fucked against and, when it couldn't possibly hurt any more, that we made love on.

But there's nothing here, nothing here, and I can't help but think this emptiness in my chest is some anchor wanting to stay here, too, to fill up what won't ever be the same again. I want to upack. I want to go back. I want you to want to keep my heartbeat against your ribs like you keep the tattoos on your skin. I want blurred lights indulging inebration against the backdrop of our hazy Paris, stumbling home in your arms to be pushed against the nearest wall-- oh, do you still want me? My lips open with a heavy sigh; there's something tired behind my eyes. I feel like I've stared this place down like I've sobbed until my throat was raw. Does it matter? Does it matter?

I rest a shaking hand against the cold walls that no longer hold the warmth we knew here. I rest my forehead against it. I clench my jaw. It feels like falling apart-- do you know it? I imagine you there, your heart asleep with no air, and here I am, begging, "ocean, please, help me drown these memories." There must be something for reprieve in this house-- no longer a home. I pace back and forth, lip between teeth, in front of the boxes. They hold what little you left. They hold what little WE have left. Have? Have? Had. I taped them up much like I thought I taped my heart back together to see you one last time, but now I pry them open with nails kept long, kept long-- you didn't want me anymore towards the end. I reached inside and my hands found the one thing you always did love. A camera.

I suppress a shaky exhale. What use does any oxygen have for me now? I'm already underwater. I pulled the old thing from its depths-- I can't look at anything else, at the things you shared with me in intimacy I'll never know again-- and held it in both hands, cradled it the way I cherished every moment with you. I held you in blinding light and now my eyes are blind, but I see you still, I see you still; I always will. It's a relic, something I wouldn't expect you to have. A disposable-- much like me, yea? You always loved to decorate the walls with glimpses of the world you lived in-- and at times, that WE lived in. But they're all packed up now, aren't they? I wonder what you'll do with them. Are they any worth to you now? Will you throw them out, or in the back of your closet somewhere like there's some sentimental tune to them still? Oh, I wonder, I wonder.

I still have a few hours before you come, standing tall in our-- no, no-- doorway in a long petticoat that screams you've already moved on, already gotten rid of everything I ever gave you, as if I hadn't kept everything you gave me. I stand and I'm surprised I'm not shaking; I'm surprised I'm strong. It's another minute and I'm driving-- slow, like I couldn't blink there in a second, because the drive makes it feel real, and maybe this memory is the only thing I'll have left-- to the nearest photography place. I try not to remember that it's the same one you frequented for your work, because we didn't have a darkroom, because you always wanted to go hand-in-hand-- white knuckles; I clenched the wheel a little tighter. The inside is the same as I remembered from last time, but the consistency holds no comfort for me.

They look at me with carefully constructed pity, like they know I stole the camera. But they process the film anyways, and my fingers won't stop tapping, tapping, tapping against the counter as it takes forever. When do you get here again? Wait, wait. I know exactly when. How couldn't I? This has been the highlight-- the dread-- of my week. There's something so sick about this, this misery so addictive. But it's done, and I'm suddenly breathless in a store in Paris. I'm almost glad I was the one to develop the squares as they pass through my fingers, blurred vision pulling in every color and every line and every shadow because, fuck, it's us, it's us, it's us-- do you remember?

I'm shaking again and driving and I can't quite recall the streets I pass but I'm back home before I can remember the ride there. You're standing at the doorway like a stranger, and I suppose you are. You look foreign; you look new. I pull shades to my eyes although it's dark now and hope you can't see the angry blood vessels prominent from my downfall. You nod to me, a silent greeting, and I wonder if it's because your voice would break like my heart is. I don't inhale and pretend it's because I won't cry, but I know it's really to avoid remembering your scent in this moment, or maybe so I won't find out if you changed your perfume already. You don't shift, uneasy, as if there's no ocean churning in your chest and breaking like tidal waves against your ribs, like there is mine; there is in mine.

We step inside and the heavy curtain falls on me, and I look over at the gentle slope of your neck to soft shoulders and sharp shoulderblades. You don't look any different. I swallow and reach for the boxes, lifting one with ease and turning to the door. You're so silent that I forget you're behind me, and you see the clench of my jaw against the fight of tears. You say nothing. I keep moving and my head down as I fill your car with what's left of me, left of me. You slide into your driver's seat but you don't say goodbye-- I know, I know, I know. I press my lips together and nod like you did, and hope you don't see it in my eyes. And then you're gone.

I slip into my own car and let my head fall against the headrest. I close my eyes. It's useless; I still see you. I know the drive home, but I can't park there anymore. I know the drive home, and all the lights that used to blur past us as you smiled at me from the driver's side, something like love in your eyes. You kept me warm where the alcohol didn't, and I remember my head bowing as I laughed because you missed our place. Did you love me then? I use one hand to cover my eyes. You're gone. You're gone. Why do I still see you? I wonder if you blink and our memories disappear, or if they play like movies behind your eyelids whenever there's darkness. Well, they're my light.

My hands are weak when I place them on the wheel, but I make it home. I make it... home? The bed is stale from sheets unwashed, both from depression and because, for the longest time, I didn't need to use them; I used yours. But here we are. I'm sitting empty. I fall back and it makes me seasick. I hit the pillows and I almost turn to pull you against me before it breaks my heart. I let out something guttural, before I'm on my feet and running to the bathroom, hunched over the bowl and holding it like you held me once. I empty my stomach, though I haven't eaten all day, and return to what isn't my bed-- you're where my dreams are.

I know you'll be my nightmare, like I keep a record of the wreckage of my life on the floor of my closet, like I keep the rest of our memories warm where you no longer want them. The darkness falls against eyes already heavy with something more than exhaustion, more than sadness, more than you. I clench a hand around where my heart should be, if it still existed under the weight of whatever war it has waged for any semblance of survival-- I know I am no soldier; I lowered my sword when you held me and swore you'd stay, stay, stay.

And there it is, the comfort of unconsciousness as I fall into the heavy. I have held this habit close as I waited the days for goodbye, though it has not come, though it HAS, though it's every day, every day. I breathe in; I breathe out. The waves have settled but my lungs are still waterlogged driftwood-- the most ease I can ask for. I wait, and I wait. My head is finally clear when the stars give way to the sun, but I know I'll dream of you. I always do. I always will.


End file.
